Murmuring Ghosts
by UndercoverCaptain
Summary: To the East of Westeros lies Illyria, a kingdom which Luciana was once princess of before her parents were murdered and she was exiled. But now she's been summoned back, to be a pawn in the new king's quest for power, and he's set his sights on Westeros. Luce is presented as a wife to a hopeful ally, but will they be victorious? For without victory, there is no survival. Robb/OC AU
1. Farewell King!

**Hi, everything Game Of Thrones related belongs to HBO and GRRM, only original characters and Illyria are mine. Special shout out goes to Shakespeare for quite a lot of my inspiration. Enjoy. **

_For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground_

_And tell sad stories of the death of kings;_

_How some have been deposed; some slain in war,_

_Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed;_

_Some poison'd by their wives: some sleeping kill'd;_

_All murder'd: for within the hollow crown_

_That rounds the mortal temples of a king_

_Keeps Death his court and there the antic sits,_

_Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp,_

_Allowing him a breath, a little scene,_

_To monarchize, be fear'd and kill with looks,_

_Infusing him with self and vain conceit,_

_As if this flesh which walls about our life,_

_Were brass impregnable, and humour'd thus_

_Comes at the last and with a little pin_

_Bores through his castle wall, and farewell king!_

_**- Richard II, William Shakespeare**_

She walked down a brightly lit corridor, the walls decorated with elaborate mosaics depicting glorious battles and fantastical legends. She walked with ease, knowing the route off by heart; she had walked it many times, in many dreams similar to this one. She outstretched her arm and let her hand trail against the wall, feeling the tiles beneath her fingers. This part was always the same, but how long it lasted often varied. Sometimes she would walk for what seemed like hours through corridor upon corridor, never hesitating as to which direction to take. In the end it always led to the same place.

At some point or another she arrived at a great door with gilded handles and the face of a bearded man upon its panels painted in gold. The man's stern face was encircled with golden vines and on those vines various animals hid behind the leaves. Some were beasts so unusual in appearance that it was almost impossible to put a name to them. Some weren't animals at all but were people; angelic faces too beautiful and otherworldly to be that of mere mortals. These faces peered out from behind the leaves, as if their purpose was to inspect those who wished to enter the room whose entry was prevented by this ornate barrier.

She reached out without hesitation and turned the polished handles, already knowing what she would see.

The room was large with cold stone floors and huge stain glassed windows with similar designs to the great door. Jewel coloured glimmers of light from the windows cast blurry shapes across the floor. Deep blue velvet curtains cascaded down the sides of the windows like rivers, their silver embroidery resembling fish. The room was beautiful and almost completely bare, apart from three thrones that sat at the very end of the room.

The middle throne was grand in size with two smaller seats beside it, less lavish in appearance. All three were made of gold, twirling designs and sparkling jewels decorating their surfaces. Apart from its size, the middle throne differed from the other two because residing just above the headrest was what looked like a halo with two winged figures flanking either side. This throne looked fit for a god.

Upon these thrones sat three figures dressed in robes with crowns upon their heads. Yet as our heroine stepped further into the room and thus closer towards them, they did not make a sound nor any movement to acknowledge her.

In the centre sat a man, handsome in appearance, his golden crown resting upon a head of ebony black hair. His eyes were a brilliant blue, his beard neat and regal looking. He had a distant, ghostly look about him; his face looked a little over thirty but his eyes seemed old before their time, holding secrets and tales of long ago. Yet this was not what made his appearance startling, for although he appeared fixed in time, unmoving, the colour of life still warmed his cheeks, despite the three arrows protruding from his chest.

The figure to the dead king's left was in a similar state; upon this throne state a beautiful young woman with hair the colour of wheat, eyes like turquoises and pearly white skin. Yet she too sat frozen, crimson droplets seeping down her elegant neck like rubies.

The last throne was an exception to the others. On it sat a small girl of maybe five or six, her hair as dark as midnight, her eyes bright like turquoises and her skin as white as snow. The little princess sat weeping; tears streaming down her face as her sobs echoed throughout the vast room.

But as the child's cries grew louder, the walls began to fade and the dream began to crumble as the waking world reached out its hand to rouse our sleeping heroine. The rising sun bid farewell to the curious dream; the girl's sobs ceased, the golden door closed and Luciana Vasari no longer walked the corridors of a place now only visited in her dreams.

Luce's eyes slowly opened only to be closed a second later as the summer sun proved too bright. She cautiously opened them once more and rubbed the remains of sleep from her eyes. An elderly woman stood at Luce's window, her wrinkled hand still resting on the worn fabric of the curtain. Old eyes met young ones as the woman turned and smiled kindly down at her.

"Sometimes I wonder what you dream of child; sleep doesn't seem to grant you the same peace it does others." She reached over and patted Luce's hand gently, her smile now sadder than it was before.

The truth was that the recurring dream that plagued Luciana's nights wasn't unknown to those around her. In fact her dream wasn't even her own imagining but a truth only whispered of behind shielded hands, never spoken out loud for fear that the wrong person should hear it. This truth was a violent, ugly one, filled with lies and ungodly actions against the divine right of kings.

* * *

Ten years prior to our story's start there was a raven-haired king by the name of Menelaus III who sat upon the throne of a kingdom named Illyria. He was a slight man, not built for the ravages of war that his kingdom was famed for. And it was this fault that evidently lost him his crown, and his life.

Although lacking in a warrior's constitution he was a very intelligent man who liked to play at invention rather than war. Yet Illyria, as it had always been, was a nation devoted to accumulating power, so to have a king so disinterested in a subject all his predecessors had relished was seen as a great embarrassment. However, even if such feelings were felt no action could be put in motion in favour of them. Whether he was suited for the role or not Menelaus Vasari was, by the divine right of the gods, king. Any action to depose him would be seen as treason and against the wishes of the gods, but feelings of resentment towards the king grew and out of these feelings sprung a magnitude of devious plots.

But the king had a cousin; Claudio Vasari was similar in age to his kingly cousin yet that was where their similarities ended. Where King Menelaus was gentle his cousin was brutal, a famed general of the Illyrian army. Claudio didn't appear often at court, preferring to fight than to dance. In the eyes of those opposed to their current ruler, Claudio seemed the ideal warrior king who would raise Illyria to new heights of power and prosperity.

Mathias Indigo, a key member of the Medeian Senate, the capital of Illyria, was a man who doubted his king's ability to rule. Being the most influential member of the Senate and one of the most powerful men in Illyria, Indigo was privy to everything of importance, from the army to the treasury. He had the power to make a dynasty soar to high heaven or crumble to dust. He was a charismatic man who could manipulate and control words in such a way that enabled him sway even the most steadfast man to his way of thinking. It was this trait that proved him to be an invaluable friend and feared enemy.

It was Indigo's belief that if Menelaus Vasari remained King, Illyria would plummet into depression, unable to defend its self due to the lack of funding put into training soldiers and developing weapons. Flying contraptions and new fangled machines were a waste of time in many of the senators' eyes; toys for the king didn't benefit the empire and certainly didn't prevent war.

So with Indigo's influence over key sectors of the Illyrian army a rebellion arose, led by the king's cousin Claudio Vasari. Like most hot-blooded Illyrians Claudio craved power and recognition, but such things came at a price. More often than not the search for power is paid in blood. This case was no different.

The rebels were nicknamed 'The Terror', annihilating all the King's loyal forces until they forced their way through to the royal palace in Medeia. They broke through the palace's defences, spilling blood wherever they went and stabbing and slicing through anything that stood in their way.

No one to this day knows who gave the order to kill the royal family. Some believed it to be Claudio, crazed with bloodlust, a decision he would come to regret and lose his mind over in years to come.

The young queen screamed as men shot arrows at her husband, piercing his heart. But she didn't scream for long as brutish man seized her and sliced her throat open with his dagger, letting the blood seep down into her silken robes. Only the little princess escaped them, hiding herself behind a velvet curtain, trying to hold in her frightened sobs.

She was found later, once the fighting was done, sitting beside her parents, their blood staining her clothes. Any attempt to remove her from her parents caused the child to cry out "They're not dead! They're just sleeping." That's all she'd say, over and over. They're not dead. They're just sleeping. They're not dead…

* * *

It had been ten years since the death of her parents on that fateful summers day. Ten years since Luciana's life had changed so drastically from princess to pauper. Her life had been spared but she could no longer remain at her home in Medeia, so she was sent far away to the Northern most part of Illyria.

It was a rocky, sparsely populated place, its main inhabitants dwelling in Adelfi, a small settlement upon a mountain ridge overlooking The Valley of Andros. For many years Luciana lived happily, having been adopted into the family of a poor goat herder under the guise of an orphaned niece.

She lived in a small thatched cottage made from the stone of the mountain, with a little garden round the back filled with lavender bushes and other herbs. Luce's new family consisted of an elderly couple and their two spinster daughters; their sons having left to live in Ianthe, a large market town down the eastern side of the mountain, famed for its dyed silks and woven carpets.

The arrival of Luciana came as a surprise; she was quite literally dumped on them with hardly any explanation at all. It had been a on a night when Theia, the Sky Goddess, was at her wildest; trees swayed to the sound of wild dogs howling in the night. It was as if the cloaked men who had delivered Luce had chosen the D'Rossi house at random, not caring where in particular she was sent, only that they had indeed delivered her to Adelfi as ordered.

That was the last time anyone ever heard of Luciana Vasari, the lost princess of Illyria. But she was never forgotten, stories like hers never are, even the usurper King, Claudio thought of her, the little girl he'd robbed a family and kingdom of.

* * *

The air was cool on Luce's face as she walked along the cobbled streets of Adelfi, humming an old song whose name she'd forgotten. The village was beautiful in the golden light of the morning sun; the only sound to be heard was the bleating of goats in the distance and the soft rumblings of insects. After a night of all too familiar dreams, Luciana would always pull on a pair of worn leather boots and set out to clear her head. She loved her home with its rustic beauty and simplicity but she could never shake off the feeling that she didn't belong. For as long as she could remember her life in Adelfi hadn't seemed quite her own, it was as if she was watching some other girl's life unfold, waiting for the inevitable to happen; for it all to be taken away. That was what feared her the most, that some day she wouldn't wake up to the sound of Bernardo taking the goats out, to Ursula drawing her curtains, to the sisters arguing over nothing.

But to dwell on such things would only cause this secret dread to worsen. So she locked those sad thoughts away along with her bad dreams and hoped for a happier day when she wasn't so scared. For although her short life had been filled with much sadness Luciana did not let her misfortunes become her; anger and revenge served no purpose in the life of a goat herder's niece.

Instead she smiled away her sorrows; they had happened so long ago. But she still remembers them holding her small hands and taking her about the palace garden, tucking pretty flowers behind her ears. Yet with time their faces began to fade, she has no pictures of them, no reminders. Besides those paintings have most likely been destroyed by now or locked in some vault never to be seen again, never to be looked at and admired ever again. Luce hopes the later; she hates to think of their finely drawn faces burning while Marcellus' men watch and laugh.

Sometimes on days when it's too wet to go walking and the rain soaks right through you, Luciana plans her adventures dreamily. One day she'll go back to Medeia and walk in the palace gardens like she did as a child, she'll travel east to Westeros and then further still to the Free Cities. She doesn't know how she'll get there yet; she'll save those thoughts for the next rainy day.

Luce meandered past the small stone cottages, the hem of her dress now dirty from trailing along the ground. Places like Westeros and Essos seemed so far away, even Medeia seemed out of her reach. But still she dreamed of those far off places, places she'd only read about in old dusty volumes, places she hadn't been to in so very long. Little did she know, she'd visit them far sooner than she ever expected.

**I hope you liked it! Please review and tell me what you think. Thanks :) **


	2. Winter is Coming

**Hi, sorry that it's been awhile, I had a lot of schoolwork. I only own my original stuff; everything else is GRRM's and HBO's. I've changed a couple of things in the first chapter in terms of location; originally I was going to have Illyria in Essos but I'm finding it hard to find a place for it so I thought why not just create a new continent. So Illyria is now the dominant country of Rheos, south west of Westeros. Enjoy.**

_Can'st thou, O partial sleep! give thy repose_

_To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude;_

_And, in the calmest and most stillest night,_

_With all appliances and means to boot,_

_Deny it to a king? Then, happy low, lie down!_

_Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown._

_- __**Henry IV Part II, William Shakespeare**_

The Sunset Sea was a great, seemingly unexplored ocean that lay to the west of Westeros. Many explorers had sailed into its vast waters searching for new lands, but save a few small-uninhabited islands west of the Iron Islands, nothing had been found, or at least none had returned home alive to speak of it. In fact, many believed that the Sunset Sea cannot be crossed and that it leads to the ends of the earth. However, some Ironborn claimed to have found more substantial land in the far west, though their talk fell mostly on deaf ears.

Yet those who did listen found themselves wondering how such a place could remain hidden for so long; a place of untold beauty and treasures, a kingdom of heaven.

This land of mystery was called Rheos by those who knew of it and it is here, in the great empire if Illyria, far to the west of the land of Westeros, that our story truly begins:

Illyria was many times the size of the neighbouring countries of Rheos, and its army seemed to always be either conquering more land or keeping down rebellions. However for almost decade now an uneasy, albeit generally peaceable, coexistence had been maintained. The Illyrian capital, Medeia, was a vast, walled metropolis built on an island in the delta of the great Naiad River in the southern part of Illyria. It was just two days ride north of the nearest town, Calorman, but several weeks ride from the more southern parts of Illyria.

Medeia was a hot and crowded place, with fine streets, magnificent palaces, and enchanting gardens. It was built on a natural slope, rising to the Royal palace and the great Temple of the Spirit, at the pinnacle of the hill. The palace was magnificent beyond description and opened onto gardens that ran right down to the river wall. This strong wall rose out of the water, surrounding the entire city and the entrance of which could only be reached by long bridges from both banks, providing the only place where crossing the Naiad River was possible for many miles. The banks of the river were lined with sweet smelling gardens and country houses where the rich and grand would dwell whilst the King was at court in Medeia.

Indeed, Illyria was a wealthy and profitable land, and thus by extension so was its King. In the many hundreds, if not thousands, of years that the Vasari's had ruled Illyria, they'd built many sumptuous palaces and villas across their great land, each generation adding to the collection. The Royal family would escape to their palaces in the north when the sweltering heat of the capital became too much, and the court would follow dutifully. Some were like colourful birds, hoping they might be granted more lands and titles in exchange for a pretty song or two, while others were more calculated in their cunning. Either way everyone at the Illyrian court had an agenda.

* * *

It was on a hot summers night in the capital, while ladies danced and lords drank spiced wine that the murmurings began. In the ten years that Claudio Vasari had been king his health had deteriorated hugely. The cause of his ailments were disputable; some would argue that years of fighting had taken its toll on the old warrior, yet there were those who would speak of justice, of penance for his sins and of a lost but not forgotten princess. The king had never been an openly religious man; he did not preach and pray like other men. Yet as of late he had become more pious in his following of _The Devout Hand, _the prevailing religion of Rheos, which followed five elemental deities. It appeared that old age and illness had changed something in the once harsh and unforgiving monarch. More often than not he would find no peace in sleep, instead of its sweet comfort he would be plagued with dreams, some mere delusions, others hideous truths.

The old king sat upon his gilded throne, his steely eyes clouded with guilty thoughts, as jewel toned dresses twirled around him, perfuming the room with the smell of Jasmine and Orange Blossom. During the early days of his rein, Claudio had conquered many of the lands surrounding Illyria, adding to the vast empire that he would one-day pass down to his son. What he wanted he took with steel and fire; he sacked and burned cities to the ground. He was not a kind man and was quick to anger when provoked. But that is not to say he did not love, for even the cruellest of men have a heart, however cold it may be. Above all else, Claudio loved his family, in particular his eldest son and heir, Prince Lysander.

Lysander was a fine young man, tall and strong with same fighting prowess as his father and ancestors before him. Although a proficient and brutal fighter, Lysander had an elegance about him that his father lacked; he was witty and charming with darkly handsome looks and piercing, cat-like eyes. Much the same could be said for his brother, though he tended to lurk in the shadows, away from the glare of the Illyrian court. Lysander suited the title of beloved prince but Cesare Vasari scorned it. He hid in the darkness and kept to himself but like his brother he was a glorious fighter, and was justly named The Black Prince due to his shadowlike movements on the battlefield.

So as his brother danced and his father sat on his thrown, Cesare stood where he felt most comfortable: the shadows. But do not mistake him for a shy, bashful man, as much can be benefitted from standing back and observing one's surroundings. Indeed, much can be learned from being out of sight in a room filled with secrets, you might just chance upon one. And that is precisely what happened to our prince:

"He means to bring her back to Medeia," whispered a rather portly lord dressed in robes the colour of polished jade. His face was a dark crimson from consuming too much wine and as a result his words were slow and slurred.

"Are you certain?" replied his friend, an older man, his face creased in contemplation. His eyes were fixed on the dancing figures; their dark iris' following the fluttering's of silk as if they were lovebirds released from their gilded cages ready to fly away into the hot summer night.

"Yes quite certain my friend; I overheard Indigo and Medici whispering last night about this latest development." The portly lord smiled smugly to himself relishing in sharing his gossip, unaware of the prince lurking in the darkness behind them.

"But surely this is not the king's doing! Why would he bring the girl back after ten years of exile in the North? What is the motive behind this request?" The older lord, whose name was Luca Domitus, tore his eyes from the dancers and looked at his friend with confusion.

"There are rumours that the king will not live long and that he seeks penance for his crimes against her family. What action his grace will take is still uncertain, perhaps he will set her up in one of his palaces with an impressive title." The portly lord's interest had begun to wane as he spied a servant boy carrying a tray of wine.

Domitus frowned and pondered this information for a moment; his wrinkled hand stroked his pointed beard in contemplation before he finally spoke; "Her presence will no doubt create tension, though it has been ten years since her exile and her parents death, the common folk still remember it well. I fear what effect she well have; many still harbour an alliance towards, her return may result in a rebellion."

His plump friend laughed, "You worry too much my old friend! What harm can a girl do to this kingdom, the king will most likely seek forgiveness to settle his soul and then she'll be married off to some lord and forgotten once more!" He slapped his friend on the back and downed the rest of his wine, "well now I'm going enjoy myself while the night is still young and I suggest you do the same!" He sauntered away, his eyes already trained on the unsuspecting cupbearer.

As the two lords dispersed into the crowds, Cesare stepped out of the shadows, his cat-like eyes surveying the dancing nobles before him. Cesare could feel a storm coming that was far greater than the mere arrival of Luciana Vasari. Something else was coming. Summer couldn't last forever.

**Hope you like it :) Please review! **


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